Anxiety
by S0n 0f J3r1ch0
Summary: The darkness falls on Sunnydale. It's a night among the other, but not for Spike. A surprising listener, a free walk in the street, and an unpassable doorstep, will help him to figure out a brand new side of himself. And to realize that humans and vampire are not so different after all.


_\- What does it mean to have a soul, Mr. Giles? –_

 _A confused gaze, he frowned facing that weird request. The glass of brandy lies on the table. – I don't know. –_

 _\- You perfectly do, but you're not going to tell me. Why? – His burly voice bites the Watcher's. In so many years, he never got used to a "no" as an answer. – To the ones like me, I mean. –_

 _A slight dusting to the bright lens, loosening the hesitation. Maybe it's not too late for a new lesson._

 _\- I believe it primarily means being conscious of our own actions, and accepting the responsibilities of every consequence. –_

 _##_

 _##_

As the lights go down to the sunset, he fades in the darkness. Invisible, he clandestinely rules a reign that has never really been his propriety. His long leather jacket flutters at every single step on the blacktop.

Narrow alleys to find his brothers, dozens of places to hide, a pub to get drunk. Sunnydale, the Preys City.

The crypt is starting to get too tight, it no longer offers him answers. It wasn't his plan, to sleep and hide from the sun in a harsh tomb of some lavish gentleman. The bare stone, a creased armchair, only sharpens the abandon from who gave and promised him an endless life.

He wanders through the night with no destination. He fights back the regret of the dying days spent in a real castle, back when being there still had a precise purpose.

##

##

 _\- Why are you asking me this question, Spike? –_

 _His presence doesn't scare Giles, just makes him curious. In the prospective of a quiet evening of books and radio, ending it talking with him was the last thing he expected. But yet, he knows him enough to know many worse creatures have been through that house._

 _\- Just wondering. –_

 _\- Seriously? – An inquisitor glance, trying to unmask that strange doubt, unworthy of a creature of the night._

 _\- Well, I… just wanted to know what it feels like. –_

 _A snicker slips out of Giles' mouth, while he fills his glass one more time. – You think you have a soul too? –_

 _The silence that follows needs no explanation. The Watcher shakes his head and finds some comfort in the brandy. – You know it's not possible. –_

 _\- It happens to someone. –_

 _##_

 _##_

A stealthy movement breaks his distraction and calls him back to the present. Two characters, maybe friends once upon a time, rush in a wonky run, and quickly disappear behind the corner. A few meters away, a man falls down to the ground, senseless.

Spike walks like a shadow, while he reached him with extreme caution. Alert that no one sees him, may get him into troubles, or question his innocence.

He bends over, guided by a fascinating greed. A cigarette hangs from his lips, and burns above the lifeless body.

Human, male of over 40s, athletic, classy. Hair messed up, white skin, no breath.

A tiny blood river on his collar. A couple of marks on his neck, of a well know shape, immortals.

A shiver shocks through his backbone. Leftovers are not satisfying as a hunt, but for a moment, he feels thirsty once again. That thirst.

He reaches out his hand. Grinds. Something stops him, and it's not the chip in his brain.

##

##

 _\- Are you thinking about Angel? –_

 _\- He made it. –_

 _\- He's been cursed. – Giles wards off the upset, he knew he couldn't have understood. – And quite frankly, only trying to imagine what he's been through since then, is unreal for all of us. –_

 _\- But we're made off the same breed, so why can't I… -_

 _\- No way. – He can read an evident envy in the vampire's words, but he gives no credit. They're rivals from an oblivious time, leading a endless feud. – You and Angel are not the same, you never were, in one life or another. Angel is not evil anymore. –_

 _\- Me neither! I haven't hurt any of you "good guys" since… you tell me when! –_

 _\- That's not the point, Spike. Deal with your soul every single day means being able to see the world even from other people's eyes, understanding the emotions they feel and the choices they make. It means wanting the best for who surrounds you, more than for yourself. It means coming to risk your own soul, to protect another one. –_

 _Spike realizes it. The soft light in the Watchers living room, brings him to watch inside himself. He wonders what he's fighting for, what drives him to stay for hours behind a tree, to snitch on his worst enemy's home. Maybe, somewhere deep inside, he's protecting someone too._

 _##_

 _##_

He steps away from that lifeless body, he leaves the memory of a man lying on the ground behind.

He's aware that the morning after, as the sunlight arises, some newspaper will talk about the homicide happened in a forgot area of the town. The police will investigate, inspect, formulate a thousand theories. In their best shot, they will find no body. As everyone else, they will just ignore his new existence, his new blood life, his new belonging breed.

And in the end of the day, his destiny will be to become another trophy for the Slayer.

The Slayer… he's lucky he's still alive.

##

##

 _Giles' personal library captures his attention. – How come you have all these books, and none of them that can help you figuring out what's wrong with me. –_

 _\- There's nothing wrong with you, Spike. Well, probably, you may need some help. –_

 _\- Then help me, come on! Something's going on inside me, and I can't explain it. I feel like I'm missing my freedom, the willing to obey only to my impulses, my killer instinct. –_

 _The Watcher smiles and drinks another sip. – That's not so bad. –_

 _\- It's terrible! – and hard to accept. – I'm changing. –_

 _\- You're not changing. You're… well, turning back to who you used to be. –_

 _\- And what was I? –_

 _\- Don't ask me that. –_

 _A writer of stupid poems._

 _##_

 _##_

A stupid poem, that's what his life has been till the reborn.

Wasted time and powers running after imaginary models, dull honor, or praising the beauty of some emotionless milady.

A simple bit, a blinding pain, and then life again, a second chance.

He doesn't regret anything he made since then, after his resurrection.

Listening only to his hunger, pleasing only his own desires, biting and digging deep into a tender skin, savoring each shade of blood. It's been a gas, he can't deny it. Hearing the falling screams of his victims, watching pure terror in their eyes, while a pleasure runs through his bones.

A ravenous look is still in his eyes. Those senses are too vivid to be hidden.

But he's no longer like that.

##

##

 _Giles puts the half empty bottle back to the cupboard, and the glass in the sink. He's tired, but it looks like that weird visit is far to be over._

 _\- If you're looking for an answer, you're not going to have it from me. –_

 _Spike lets his hair down in the Watcher's house. He's sitting on the armchair, maybe he's not even listening to him anymore. The coat dropped on the couch, his hand tightly around the armrests._

 _Mysteriously absorbed, he stares at the nothing. – I've been accused to not know what feelings are. – He's mad, disappointed, hurt._

 _Giles stares at him. He knows Spike does know that, Willow told him something. – So what? Is this the only reason why you think you got a soul? –_

 _The vampire gets surprised by his rude and authoritative voice. He glances at him, desperately full of hope. But the Watchers stands still._

 _\- You still don't get it, do you? What you're feeling is in no way something new. We've all been through. Probably now you can't remember what it was like, because you're feeling it like another life, but it's the same for you. I wasn't sure, but apparently, not even you creatures of the night can escape from this law. Well, here's something you and Angel look alike. –_

 _Spike clicks up, as if the seat was suddenly in flames. Frozen, he goggles at Giles and grabs his jacket._

 _\- You're not talking about what I'm thinking, right? –_

 _He didn't see that coming. He's upset due to his biggest matter: he knows Giles is right. –_

 _\- Go home, Spike. The night is still young. -_

 _##_

 _##_

Maybe he's really been overwhelmed. At the end of the walk, without noticing, he finds himself in the suburbs one more time. Facing a house he cannot avoid.

He leans to a tree, out of the street lamp's light, and lights up another cigarette. He doesn't want to go back to his crypt, drink his cocktail, and give up to a noisy and dreams packed sleep.

Better to stay there, staring at the front door he's lost the right to go through. The Slayer's shelter.

He's fighting against himself, against his half still called Prince of the Darkness. No heart beating, no vein pulsing with holy blood, no innocence.

But yet, in his desires, he craves to taste her lips, instead of her blood. To hold her body tight, but not her throat. To fall deep inside her, and not just in her neck.

He remembers what Giles told him. _Every vampire has his own essence._

The chip, the forbidden bites, the incapacity of hurting who doesn't deserve it, the prohibition against the humans. All the wrong things to blame.

His nature is changing. And against all theories, his essence, his new reason to live, is right in front of that door.

##

##

 _\- How many real days do we truly live, Mr. Giles? –_

 _\- A few, actually. You could easily count them on your finger tips. –_

 _\- And how do I recognize them? –_

 _\- It's easy. It's a day where you realize your life is changing. -_


End file.
